რ –glue
by Flashing The Floods
Summary: Routine is very difficult to disassemble. And you, well you're probably misassembled, but you're definitely not irreparable. Melted trash bag crap, spoilers for the latest episode and whatnot, kind of. Just more crap.


**Author's Note: Damn. I have other shit I'm supposed to be doing. But I guess I just, I dunno? I'm surprised the game actually took the child abuse route. I really didn't think that was about to happen, I've just played with it before because I'm a piece of shit. But damn. So here's this. It's crap. Like, disjointed, mediocre, dull, shittastic, disjointed, worthless crap that falls into continuity with some other craps. Also references to a completely irrelevant crap. **

**Um, shit. I guess uh...Crap. This is crap and I am crap, and Doxy, I'm sorry it's taking so long for your request to get pumped out. I'm working on that, I promise. It's turning out to be longer than I expected and this just kind of happened. Beware of child abuse and whatnot ._.**

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><p>It is a long conversation. The longest and most civil you've ever had with him. He doesn't ask you too much at once, which helps you settle and what he does ask you is what a lot of other, more professional people are going to ask you, so you need to know what you're going to say anyway. It isn't the first time you've heard these questions, but it's the first time you've answered them honestly and this is both a very terrifying and very liberating experience for you.<p>

A part of you still wants to try and sweep the skeletons back into your closet.

A part of you still can't comprehend that the door has been opened in the first place.

But perhaps it's been over for a very long time. Maybe it's been over since the moment Lynn's gaze caught your discolored back instead of Lysander's inked one.

Change is much scarier than being jaded to bruises and bitterness you didn't want to fester, your father is the devil you know and a future without him is the devil you don't, but here you are with the accumulation of your neatly kept dysfunction spilling from your lips with only the slightest of stutters.

Castiel isn't the easiest person to talk to, but perhaps he's the best person to talk to. He doesn't look at you with that pitying glimmer in his eyes like Lynn does, the one that feels like a knife to the gut every time you meet it. He looks solemn, intent. He also knows exactly what you've wanted to know for a very long time, but just never had the nudge to take the right steps.

How to become legally independent.

He tells you about that. He tells you he can help you with that.

You clench your grip around the seat until your knuckles turn white. Despite everything, you are a proud person. Needing help from him stomps out the last faint flame of pride you had left.

You're cringing on the inside, the taste of lye on your tongue and thorny vines tightening in your chest. Maybe it's better your pride's been put out because then you can give this unbidden, defeated smile when he so casually declares,

"I've got an empty couch if you need somewhere to stay."

.

.

.

The couch is not empty when you get there, the belongings you've taken with you in a bag over your shoulder and your shiner nearly faded back to normal. It's occupied by a gigantic, drooling, canine beast.

You feel your lip curl up in distaste as it hops down from the cushions and rushes over to inspect you with its snout.

"That's Demon," Castiel says as he shuts the door behind you.

"What a fitting name," you mutter. As far as you're concerned, every dog in existence is a demon. Stupid, filthy beasts. You'll never understand how anyone could prefer them over cleanly, elegant cats.

Castiel cocks a brow at you. "Hey, be nice to him. I'm not a stickler like you so I don't have a lot of rules, but that's number one."

Aggravation stirs up in your stomach, but you're hardly entitled to it. You've hated him for so long it feels hard to try not to even though now you think you might more than ever, and you hate that you're here, and you don't know how you can feel so low when the heaviest weight has been lifted form your shoulders, but you do. He is a convenient target for your ire.

He has always been a convenient target for your ire. But you have no room to lash out anymore, and maybe there's a part of you that doesn't want to. Routine is very difficult to disassemble. You close your eyes until your glare melts away behind the lids. You stiffly pat the dog's head and you do not immediately wipe off his slobber when he licks your hand.

"What are your other rules?" You open your eyes and look to him inquisitively.

"Let Demon do his thing, let me do my thing. You can do your thing as long as it doesn't involve trashing my house or anything like that."

You glance around. His house is already trashed by your standards. It isn't dirty, but it is cluttered. There are things on the floor; catalogs, clothes, dog toys. Your fingers itch to organize it.

"Fair enough," you reply.

"As you can see, the kitchen's over there." He nods to the room intersecting this one, a small nook with a counter that looks a bit too big for the space. "Bathroom's down the hall. There's a closet across from it where you can keep your stuff. Room on the right is mine, don't go in there. Room on the left is my parents', even if it is pretty empty, don't go in there either. Any questions?"

You take a moment to ponder.

"Does the couch pull out?"

"Yep."

Beggars can't be choosers and you wouldn't have complained if it didn't, but you also tend to move around a lot in your sleep.

The pause between you stretches out silently, awkwardly. You feel pathetic and you're trying not to look at him and however good Castiel's intentions are, he seems just about as stupefied as you feel at the prospect of living together.

"I guess—"

"Do you—"

You both break off, meet each other's eyes and you hope he can't find the resentment most of you is trying to bury. You never would've worried about that before, you've always kept yourself hidden in layers, but now that your entire world has been turned upside down and your secrets hung to dry, you're not really sure of anything anymore.

"Do you want to put your stuff away?" Castiel asks softly, holding your gaze.

"Yeah," you breathe and you have to look away.

He leads you down the hall and shows you to the closet. The pleasant scent of linens puffs against you as he opens the door. It's big enough. You didn't bring anything other than what was necessary with you and you can tell he moved some things around. He walks away and gives you your space as you take your clothes out of the bag and fold them, stacking them neatly. None of this quite feels real, and yet here you are.

You used to wonder what would happen if your situation got reported. Sometimes you conceived scenarios in your head, simply because you're the kind of person who does things like that. All of them went in different directions and they were all relatively realistic. None of them ended with Castiel's couch.

One of the more cynical ones ended with you in prison and one of the more idealistic ones ended with your mother single and reformed of her indifference, in a new house without the memories of pain on the walls. There was everything in between, everything except Castiel's couch.

"I'm gonna order takeout. What do you want, Nat?" He blinks at you from the end of the hall, cell phone in his hands.

You just shake your head and suspect the universe is laughing at you. "Castiel..."

"What?"

You swallow some glass and rip some weeds out of your soul, putting your all into keeping this wayward gratitude you feel free of your misplaced blight.

"Thank you."

.

.

.

School is different now. Everyone knows. It's your third day here after the crash of life as you knew it and you hoped it'd be old news by now, but this isn't the kind of thing easily forgotten. You hear the whispers behind your back. You get those sympathetic looks that make you feel like running headfirst into a concrete wall. Some students give you a wide berth and others try to get closer and smile at you like you need their kindness. All of it makes you uncomfortable.

The teachers are just as bad. You're this poor thing, this charity case, this bird with broken wings. You want to disappear, or vomit, or smack them, or all of the above.

God, as sick as it is, sometimes you miss your unfit home life. You miss the familiarity of your house, of your mother's cold eyes, of your father's firecracker fuse. You despised it, you despised so much, but you could deal with it. You got used to it.

This?

You don't know if you can deal with this. School used to be an escape. Now it's just a different kind of cage. You feel like you're suffocating and you can't show it, because then that's just another reason for them to look at you like this cupcake someone threw on the floor.

Amber gets looks like that too.

It's weird, seeing her in school and then not living with her. She's staying with your grandparents. You miss her too. Not for the routine, not for the predictability of your old life, but because she is your sister. You're starting to forgive her, you think. You shouldn't have been bitter toward her in the first place, really, you are aware of this. None of it was her fault. She may not have been subject to the same kind of...

The same kind of abuse (that word is the bane of your existance) you were, but she was still a victim (you hate that one too). Maybe you didn't acknowledge it before. Heaven knows it was easier not to. Maybe you didn't want to because you needed someone else convenient to take your wrath out on. You're trying to work on that.

You were hit in the head so many times your halo fell off, but now you're trying to polish it pretty and put it back up there. You probably can't buff out all the scratches, but a dented halo is better than no halo.

She's anxious when she approaches you between classes, swallowing and then not, her eyes wavering as she reaches out and draws her hand away again. Charlotte watches from a distance, being supportive probably, possibly even protective, but her observance makes you feel that much tenser.

"Hello," you greet because it looks like for all her effort, Amber can't.

"Hey," she replies. She's wearing more makeup than usual and a darker shade of lipstick. You think it's to cover the marks she's left chewing on it. This is the second time you've talked since the dismantling of your poison home and the first time was all the technical talk that bounced between you and suits, and slips of court papers. She's still reeling too, and she's not wearing it as well.

"How are you doing?" You ask and maybe you should put your hand on her shoulder, or pat her head, but comfort has never been your schtick and you can barely look her in the face. You're still struggling not to be unfair.

"Okay," she replies. You can tell she's trying to mean it. "How about you?"

You've been lying for a very long time, groomed yourself into a person you probably really aren't, and you're trying to work on that part too. Everything is confusing right now. You're not sure how you're doing. You hope that you're better than you've been in a very long time, but whatever you are you haven't quite caught up to it yet.

So you shrug your shoulders.

"I'm here," she tells you and this time her voice doesn't tremble, even if the gleam of apprehension has yet to leave her eyes.

_Now_, you can't help thinking bitterly, but you don't hold onto it. There is no room to hold onto anything like that anymore and you're finally realizing that there never was. You inhale, you exhale, and you nod.

.

.

.

Lysander usually walks home with Castiel. He hasn't for the past two days and you think that it's been out of consideration for you, even if his presence isn't something you mind at all. The three of you normally stay after school. You doing student council work, them with band practice in the basement. You haven't been staying after school because now you don't have to avoid going home, and Castiel hasn't been staying after for what you think he thinks to be for your benefit, even if the two of you don't really talk.

It's been quiet for the past two days you've walked home with him. You've talked a bit about homework and a bit about dinner, but you haven't had any conversations. You're both quiet at his house too. You keep to yourself and he keeps to himself, and you haven't even been in the same room for over a hour. He showers at night and you shower in the morning, and breakfast doesn't come up because all he has in the morning is coffee and a cigarette and you've just been eating his cereal.

You're not sure if you mind the silence, exactly. It's just weird. But then, everything about this is weird. Not undesirable, but weird. Castiel of all people opening his doors to you is weird, sleeping on his pullout couch-bed is weird, the mere absence of bruises on your skin is weird.

Lysander is walking home with you today. They're talking about something or other, you don't know what. You still feel like you're in a vacuum. You don't quite realize you aren't until the background hum of their conversation stops and you glance over to see them both looking at you expectantly.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"He says sushi, I say burgers." Castiel jerks his thumb toward you. "You're the tiebreaker, Nat."

Apparently you're going out to eat with them. You deliberate for a heartbeat. Given that it's Castiel's roof you're living under, you should probably say burgers. Maybe you shouldn't just to make a point.

"How do you guys feel about quesadillas?" You tilt your head, wonder what you're doing.

"I could go for that," Lysander hums amiably. "As long as they're not too spicy."

"Traitor." Castiel bumps him gently.

"You're not a fan of spicy food?" You guess.

"Not particularly," Lysander answers.

"How come?" You're trying to get back into the swing of having normal conversations.

"Oh, it just doesn't hold much appeal."

You nod, finding that completely understandable. "I'm not a fan of sweets."

"That's just unnatural," remarks Castiel. "But I guess I don't have to worry about you eating any of my ice cream, then."

The part of you that you don't really want around anymore muses that you might eat the whole tub just to spite him. But you're done listening to that part, and so you just shake your head.

"Nope."

.

.

.

The dog keeps trying to snuggle with you. Castiel never disciplines it. He told you to be nice to it and you are, but being nice to it and being affectionate with it are two different things and the dog seems to be under the impression you're going to do the latter. It keeps nuzzling your legs and hopping onto the couch-bed with you. Last night it got up there while you were sleeping and used you as a pillow.

"No," you tell it. "Down."

It looks at you with big, watery brown eyes and plops its ugly face in your lap.

"No," you repeat in the clearest octave. "Go. Away."

Its heavy tail thumps up and down on the mattress.

You irritably rub your hand over your face and direct your glower to Castiel. He's smoking at the counter, flicking some ashes into the ashtray and watching you with unveiled amusement.

"Did you teach it to do this on purpose?"

"No," Castiel replies, but the smirk on his lips lets you know he's enjoying it all the same. "He might leave you alone if you give him what he wants."

"What does he want?"

"You to pet him."

Sighing, you look back to the dog and halfheartedly scratch its ears. It lifts its head and slurps your cheek with its fat, wet, disgusting tongue. Groaning, you wipe your face off on your sleeve, but there's no use, it licks you again and snuffles your hair and slobbers all over you.

.

.

.

"You got clothes you need to wash?"

You glance up from your book to see Castiel standing before you, his hair tossed up in a ponytail and laundry basket in his arms.

"Actually, yeah." You save your page with a bookmark and start to get up.

"Hey, slow down," says Castiel. "I was just gonna tell you, the dryer's out. Smoke started coming out the back of it, so I'm just gonna finish up at the laundromat. Since you have stuff you gotta wash, we might as well go together."

"Smoke? You unplugged it, right?" Your brows knit warily.

He rolls his eyes. "Do I look like an idiot to you? Of course I unplugged it."

"Just making sure. I wouldn't want your house to burn down." You shuffle down the hall and take your bag out of the closet. It's only been a week so the pile of dirty clothes you've accumulated is small, probably only just enough to do a load of laundry, and you've been keeping it in your bag.

You tread back to the living room and Castiel's already halfway out the door, the basket awkwardly bumping against his legs. You follow, bag slung over your shoulder.

There's this car in the driveway that you assume must belong to one of his parents because it's an older model. You've never been in a car with him before. You haven't gone anywhere with him but to and from school, and you always walk there. You hope he isn't a reckless driver. He definitely strikes you as someone who could be, but that could very well be a misjudgment on your part.

It stings to admit you can be wrong, even to yourself, but you can be and you have been, probably about more than you care to realize.

Castiel shoves his basket in the back and you shimmy into the passenger's seat, dropping your bag on the floor. As soon as he turns the keys in the ignition the radio comes on, blaring thrash metal. He turns it down, more likely out of consideration for you, though the truth is you don't actually mind. You like a variety of music and from what you've heard him and Lysander practice before, you actually have similar tastes (other than that angsty grunge shit, for fuck's sake).

You've never been to a laundromat before. You eye the building critically as he parks, from the dimmed, flickering neon_ C_ in _Coin Laundry_ to the crookedly hung 'help wanted' sign in the window.

It's a bit nicer on the inside. Rows of washing machines and dryers, vending machines with soap as well as snacks, and a few benches scattered about. The place is pretty dead, but there is a pair of girls who seem to be a couple sharing a baked potato seated on one bench and a guy with the tallest gravity-defying mohawk you have ever seen near one of the vending machines.

You follow Castiel across pink and white checkered linoleum and dump your clothes in the machine. He wordlessly offers you the detergent he brought and you nod your gratitude, pouring in a meticulous half-capful and popping in the coins. He tips his basket into the dryer as you watch the water pour down on your clothes. They start to swirl and you keep watching with a languid kind of interest.

There's a soft, jazzy tune drifting from the speakers, matching the sounds of tumbling garments and swashing suds. Once you get past the jarring florescent lighting, the ambiance in here is actually pretty nice. Relaxing.

"You want something from the vending machine?" asks Castiel.

"If they have pretzels." For whatever reason, you're craving salt.

"Alright." He saunters down the aisle and you glance back to your clothes spinning in gray water, a new abstract picture with every rotation. You find yourself drumming your fingers against your legs to that jazzy song. One of the girls on the bench giggles at something her girlfriend said and you can hear the crunch of plastic when whatever Castiel's just bought hits the take-out port.

You could almost get sensory overload if all of this didn't flow so well together.

Castiel comes back, holds out your bag of pretzels. You take it and pull it open, plucking one out. You suck on before you bite it, savoring the taste of salt and hint of butter glaze.

"Thanks."

He shrugs, his eyes grazing over your features and then glinting, fixing on them. "What's with that weird smile?"

You didn't realize you were smiling, let alone weirdly. "I don't hate you," you tell him, and it almost sounds like a bad pun.

Castiel munches over his corn chip thoughtfully. "You're a prick."

He lets you help fold his clothes when they're done drying. You're not sure why. Maybe it's because he can see you're better at folding than he is? Even though he only needed the dryer to begin with, you have a small load of clothes and yours are finished drying almost as soon as you're done putting his back into the basket. You'll fold yours when you get home, since your bag doesn't have the stability of a basket.

Wait, when you get _home? _

No, not home, you didn't mean to think home.

.

.

.

School has improved somewhat. Some of those looks are starting to slip away from you, and you're growing accustomed to the ones that don't even if they still grate on you. You wonder if this is how cats feel when people pet them the wrong way.

Amber is quieter than herself, but she also seems to have found her footing under the scrutiny. You pay attention to her now. You really pay attention to her, trying to make up for all the times you didn't because you were wrapped up in your own pain and false sense of duty to be the martyr.

"How's it going?" you ask her when she tentatively crosses the threshold of the student council room after class.

"Good," she answers. "I'm going to the movies with Li and Charlotte later."

"That's nice."

"It's probably not something you'd be interested in seeing, but you could still come if you wanted to..."

"I think I'll pass." You offer a small smile to soften the refusal.

Amber nods. It seems like she wants to say something else, but she doesn't and she just keeps looking at you with an expression you can't read. It doesn't make you uncomfortable. You can empathize.

"I'm here," you promise her quietly and maybe it's not what she's looking for, but it's something you feel like you have to let her know.

She quickly strides across the stretch of floor that separates you and hugs you tightly, burying her face into your chest. You're still not good at the comfort thing, hugging and all the like. But you try. You rub her back and you pat the top of her head because you mean what you said.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs so quietly you feel it more than you hear it.

"I know."

.

.

.

"Fridge is empty," Castiel declares, shutting its door and turning back to you.

"When do you ever eat anything out of the fridge anyway?" He's a big fast-food nut and most of what is kept in the refrigerator are leftovers. The freezer is generally stocked with microwavable meals, the pantry with instant stove-top pasta, the cabinets with cereal and toaster pastries. You're not even sure why he has an oven, but you tend not to mind. It's not like you have any room to be picky.

"Okay, smart ass, fine. The _kitchen_ is empty. I'm going grocery shopping. You can either tell me what you want and hope I remember and bother to get it, or you can tag along."

"I'm coming." You were almost done with your homework anyway.

You get up, stretch out until your knuckles pop and then you step into your shoes and follow him to the car. There's a brisk wind blowing and you wish you put your jacket on, but it's okay because you're not going to be outside anyway.

It's come to your attention that well no, Castiel isn't a reckless driver, he doesn't wear a seatbelt. You don't know if he just forgets, or if it's intentional. You also notice that the evergreen freshener hanging from the rear-view mirror has long since dehydrated and you're not sure if he intentionally leaves it there for decoration or if he just forgets that it's finished serving out its purpose.

"Is it weird?" You ask.

"Hm?"

"Living alone."

"Well I don't exactly live alone anymore."

"I don't really live with you though," you say. "It's just temporary." You don't live anywhere and as soon as this is brought to the forefront of your attention, you wish you wouldn't have asked.

"I like having my space," he replies, and maybe he senses your uneasiness because he adds, "but temporary can be as long as you need it to be, Nat."

You feel like there's something stuck in your throat. You can't hack it out right away, so you turn up the radio and zone out to whatever station that is the rest of the drive to the grocery store.

As soon as you get inside, he snags a cart and dives for the frozen food aisle. You lag behind, wondering what it is you want. You can cook, kind of. Better than Castiel can you think, except you're not sure if he really is untalented or simply doesn't bother to. Despite the fact you're known him since you were children, you haven't read into him too much beyond his temperament. That you have pegged down to methods to strain every little nerve, but everything else? The unremarkable details?

Nope.

You stroll into the bakery section despite the fact that you have a distinct dislike for almost everything that can be found there. Doughnuts, cakes, brownies, ugh. Just the scent of it all is cloying.

Garlic knots are tasty though. You pick some up and you carry on to the next section that just so happens to be seafood. Live lobsters with their claws bound by rubber bands are crowded together at the bottom of the tank, completely ignorant as to why they're there. Your mother liked lobster. For all there was she couldn't (didn't) do, she could cook.

You continue your travels from aisle to aisle, hitting the deli before you inevitably reunite with Castiel in the pets' department. He pampers that damn dog, getting it the largest bag of the most expensive brand they have available. While you're here, you get a bag of dry cat food and put it in the cart.

He eyes it skeptically and scowls. "You better not be thinking of getting a cat. You I can handle, but I won't put up with one of those furry little bastards."

"I'm not," you assure him. "I just feed the strays." You did feed them anyway, it's been awhile since you have. You want to get back into that. You miss them and you're sure they miss the food.

He grunts, but he doesn't take it out of the cart and after that, you check out. You help him unload the bags and it seems even a little chillier than it was earlier, but you mind it even less because it was too warm in the store. When you get back, you help him put away the groceries and spend extra time organizing them because you like organizing things.

You don't ask for permission, but Castiel doesn't stop you.

He sits down on the couch and channel surfs and when he notices you're finished he says,

"Make some popcorn while you're in there. This movie looks like it's gonna be good."

"What's it about?" He buys the kind of popcorn that cooks on the stove. You've never had it like that before, but the instructions are simple. Purposely letting it burn is something that crosses your mind automatically, but no, you're not going to slip back into those habits.

"Swedish werewolves."

"...Sounds interesting." You're more into thrillers than you are into horror flicks, but the kernels are already popping and he can't possibly eat it all.

.

.

.

Lynn comes with you to feed the stray cats. Your relationship with her is...Well it's...Something. Rocky isn't the right word. Complicated might be the closest one, even if it's not exactly correct. She's been wisely keeping her distance from you lately, letting you be the one to approach her instead of wriggling into your breathing room like she usually does.

You appreciate that. You adore her, you truly do, and in one way or another you do owe her a lot, but you need to pace yourself. You need room to pace yourself. You're glad to be spending time with her now, walking so close together your hands could almost touch, her cheeks dimpled with a close-lipped smile.

"So how's your strange aunt doing?" You ask.

"Good, I think." She adjusts her grip on her backpack. "Read any good books lately?"

"I wish. The one I just finished was pathetically predictable."

"Bummer."

You turn into the alley where the feral colony you've been feeding stays and you're surprised to see there are bowls already there— ones that aren't yours. Lynn sees your expression and picks one up, waving it for emphasis.

"I've been feeding them. I knew you had a lot going on..." She sucks her bottom lip between her teeth and toes at the ground.

"Thanks." You smile at her and you crouch down to pet one the fluffy, one-eyed calico who's bumped your legs. Now that the two of you are here, all the cats are starting to creep out of their hiding places. You're actually relieved that Lynn has been feeding them, it's getting so cold the poor things are probably having trouble getting food by themselves.

Brightening up, Lynn kneels down and scratches a scruffy tomcat under the chin. "I gave them some flea medicine too, like last week. I didn't see fleas on them, but since they're wild and all, I thought it'd be a good idea."

"Definitely," you agree as you shrug your schoolbag off your shoulder and pull out the bag of cat food. "Flea medicine is usually preventative too."

She passes you the bowls and you fill them and spread them out to make sure all the kitties get some.

"Totally off topic, but did I tell you I thought I saw a UFO the other day?" Lynn tips her head to the side, stroking one kitten while its siblings climb all over her.

"No, you didn't mention that." You raise a brow.

"Okay, well I was taking the garbage out and I saw this thing way in the sky that looked just like a plate. Only it had these flashing red and green lights!" Her eyes grow round and she starts to make gestures, but the kitten on her shoulder mews a complaint.

You can't help chucking as she ruefully lowers her head.

"I swear, Nathaniel, I'm telling the truth."

"Like you were telling the truth when you said you met a vampire?"

"I did! I have the dress to prove it!"

"And the elves?"

"They gave me outfits too, I swear!"

"What about the chocolate makers with rabbit ears?"

"Well...That might've actually been a dream, I think...I don't know." Roses warm her cheeks and she sheepishly shifts her gaze from you to the kitten in her lap. She's ridiculous, but that's a part of her charm and you're content to spend your evening playing with the cats and walking her home.

.

.

.

Demon keeps bringing you this grotty tennis ball. Apparently he wants you to throw it, but there's no way in hell you're touching the thing. It's filthy.

"Shoo," you tell him. "Go bother your owner."

Said owner is in his room, playing his guitar to something you're not particularly fond of, so you flick on the television to drown it out. Demon whines at you and nudges your knee before he picks up the ball again.

"No," you tell him for the millionth and you're not sure why because you know the stupid beast can't understand you.

He drops the ball in your lap.

You cringe and use a throw pillow to knock it off, watching it roll across the floor. Demon goes after it and that's when what's on the television catches your attention. It's a talk show and the host just uttered that word, that word that's the bane of your existance and apparently the topic of the show. The guest is that other word you hate, the one that fills you up with molten ice when you have to admit that's what you are.

You should change the channel. There's this sharp pain in your chest and your eyes suddenly feel dry and you should change the channel, but for some reason you can't. Demon brings the ball back and drops it in your lap yet again and barely even register it.

The host interviews the guest on the screen with that same sick, somber sympathetic stare you're always getting. She's a girl not much older than you are and you can see it in the twitch of her jaw before it clenches that she hates it as much as you do.

You should change the channel. You should really change the channel, but the remote's slipped out of your hands and you can't summon the will to pick it back up. You don't want to watch this.

Why are you watching this?

Her situation was different from yours. Her mother did deranged, deplorable things to her with a wooden spoon that started out with something seemingly as innocent as giving her baths even when she'd reached the age she could bathe by herself.

It's different, it's so different, but it's actually not because all the right elements are there; violence,_ no it's NOT going to happen again_, blame, _it's MY fault, they wouldn't have done that if I wasn't like this_, fear, _oh god it's going to happen again, I know it's going to happen again, but WHEN_, anger, _why, why, WHY do you do this to me when you're supposed to love me!?_, acceptance, _I can handle this, I'm used to this, it could be worse, right? _

You nearly leap out of your skin when you feel something touch your shoulder. Castiel takes his hand back and holds both up like he's trying to show you he's unarmed and you have to gulp in air because apparently you've been holding your breath without realizing it.

"How long have you been standing there?" You snap.

"Long enough." He glances to the television and then back to you, his mouth pressed into a rigid line.

You swallow and ball your fists up in an effort to stop your hands from shaking.

"Go play with your dog," you say tartly. "He's been pestering me for the last hour."

Castiel sighs and sits on the arm of the couch. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"I was upfront about everything when you asked." You pick up the remote and you play with it, but you don't change the channel yet. You should.

"Yeah, but that's not the same thing. I'm not...Well, I'm not a therapist like that lady." He gestures to the talk show host. "But I—"

"She's probably not a real therapist," you cut him off and change the channel.

He gets the message. He picks up the grotty tennis ball and throws it down the hallway and Demon gallops after it happily, the house shaking under his massive paws.

Castiel doesn't press you about the topic, but he doesn't go back to his room until after you've dozed off to the documentary about traditional Chinese medicine and you just might appreciate that.

.

.

.

You have lunch with your sister. You simultaneously eat and play Battleship despite the fact that boardgames are virtually outdated, and you're currently winning which is why she's probably trying to distract you with conversation.

"I'm taking an art class next semester," she chirps.

"Yeah? I didn't think you'd be interested in that."

She shrugs. "I got bored the other night and the internet was out, so I made a collage with some old fashion magazines. It came out pretty nice and all the other electives are lame." She pauses before making her move. "C2?"

"Miss." You smirk and eat another forkful of rotini. "A5."

A scowl passes over Amber's features and the next bite she takes out of her cinnamon roll is rather aggressive. "You sank my submarine."

.

.

.

It's actually Lysander who invites you to tag along to this band competition thing going on at this dome in another city, but Castiel doesn't object to your presence. You go because you don't really have a reason not to go. So that's how you end up in the back of a carpeted van with the two of them, Rosalya, Leigh and a load of equipment. Said van is being driven by a perky, gothabilly androgynous person who is apparently one of Lysander's friends.

"Do suppose you'll ever take up drumming again, Nathaniel?" he asks.

"I don't know. I've thought about it." Brief though your stint was in the world of music, you enjoyed yourself. You don't really have any pressure on you not to try anymore, so perhaps you will. Maybe tonight you'll get a glimpse of whether or not it's really something that suits you.

"If you do, I'll be happy to be your stylist," Rosalya pipes up, grinning with the anticipation of a cat ready to pounce.

"You're always looking for new mannequins," the driver teases, apparently also familiar with Rosalya. You suppose it makes sense that they'd know the same people.

"Oh, shut it." She rolls her eyes, but her grin grows even wider.

Even if it's cramped, you're comfortable enough. The atmosphere remains this upbeat, light one the rest of the drive. You don't normally do things like this...Have you ever done something like this? Not that you can think of.

You help unload the equipment when you get there, and whatever garage band is currently on stage is tearing up your eardrums immediately upon entry. You look like the kind of person that would mind this. You enjoy quiet, peaceful activities, so you kind of feel like the kind of person that would mind this. You're not sure why you don't mind this.

What you do mind are all these booths and groupies competing to sell you something. You skirt away from them and watch people get thrown off of a mechanical bull for awhile before you regroup with Castiel at this drink stand.

The line is long so you both idly watch Lysander win a stuffed rabbit from one of those ungodly impossible claw machines. You're not sure what he's going to do with it, but the feat is immensely more impressive than the prize.

"Is he even human?" Well, of course you know he's human, but it's hard not to notice that he's odd. You can recognize that Lysander is probably the most majestic creature you've ever laid eyes on. He's even graceful when he walks, he has the voice of some heavenly beacon, and his hair is naturally that silvery-white color.

"Probably not," Castiel says. "You've seen his "parents," right?"

"Yeah." Interesting people to say the least.

"Isn't there some comic like that? Where there's an alien that lands in the backyard of some old farm people who decide to adopt him?"

"You think he's an alien?"

"Pfft, no." Castiel scoffs and gives you a nudge that you don't really mind. "You've been hanging around Lynn too much."

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.

On your next trip to the laundromat, the 'help wanted' sign is still in the window and still crooked and irritating you. It's genuinely one reason why you ask for an application from the freckled guy at the counter.

You fill it out while you're there, sitting on a bench. There's more than enough room, but for whatever reason Castiel has chosen to sit on top the dryer.

"You'd want to work here?" He asks skeptically.

You shrug.

"You're not just applying because you feel like you have to pull your weight, right?"

You pause.

"You don't have to. I meant it when I said you could stay as long as you need to, and that doesn't come with any catch."

You shake your head and you glance up, meeting his softened gaze. "I know. I'm only applying for part-time. I like in here. It smells good and it's never crowded."

"Alright. Just making sure." He gives a nod.

"Besides," you add. "They need to hire someone soon. That crooked sign is driving me nuts."

.

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.

After class, you manage to catch Kim before she leaves with Violette.

"What are you doing this Friday?" You ask.

"Nothing. Why?" She blinks, curious.

"It's been awhile. Do you want to hit the gym?" It feels like it's been forever since you've boxed at all, and she was always a great partner, quick on her feet with the stamina of a mountain goat.

She cracks a wide jack-o-latern grin. "Sure thing. Hey, Violette, you wanna come watch me beat him up?" As soon as she realizes what she's just said, the grin just plummets right off her face and she looks startled, stricken, starts stammering for apology.

You're not getting those looks anymore, but there's still the underlaying sympathy there that has them tiptoeing around you like you're some fragile Fabergé egg.

"It's dangerous to be that cocky," you trill cheerfully and you hope your grin tells her that there's no need to apologize.

She visibly relaxes, the completive spark coming back to her eyes. "I guess we'll see about that on Friday, won't we?"

"I'll come be your towel girl," Violette declares with a smile.

You bid them goodbye and start back to the student council room, an effervescent feeling rising behind your rib cage. Gradually you are finding your normalcy. You're happy, really. Happy without your skeletons' shadows hanging over you, happy without the acerbic aftertaste in your throat, happy without rattling chains.

You'll be even happier if you can get Lynn to hold your towel on Friday, but you're not sure you can ask her something like that without your face turning into a tomato.

.

.

.

You're not careful enough when you pour the pancake batter into the pan and it comes out way too fast, some of it splattering your shirt. Wrinkling your nose, you take your shirt off and set it down on the counter and out of the corner of your eye, you see Castiel's expression tighten.

There are scars on the small of your back. They're very thin, faint and practically invisible if you're not looking for them. Naturally, he was.

"Belt buckle," you explain simply even though he didn't ask.

"Damn." He gives you a perturbed frown and you move the pan, watching the pancake cook. It was from an instant mix and it smells pretty good.

He asked if you wanted to talk about it before. You didn't. You didn't think you ever wanted to talk about it, but now you feel like you might. It's horrible timing, you don't want to ruin his appetite or yours, but it comes out before you can stop it.

"I thought about killing myself once."

It's heavy. You don't blame him for not responding right away and you would understand if he didn't respond at all because frankly, you don't know how you would if someone told you that.

"Recently?"

It's time to flip the pancake. You succeed, but not with grace. "No, a long time ago. When it first dawned on me that he wasn't going to stop. I considered jumping off the roof."

"I'm glad you didn't." He enunciates each syllable carefully, ten shades paler than he was a moment ago.

"Me too." You flip the pancake onto a plate and pass it to him, even though you're sure you ruined his appetite.

"You don't think like that anymore, right?" He studies you severely.

"No, not at all." You pour more batter into the pan. "That literally only crossed my mind the one time. I had other ways of dealing with it." Namely projection, distraction, distancing, more projection, distraction, distancing. You always hated what your father did more than you hated yourself. You may have been rattled and shambolic, but you don't think you ever truly felt as worthless as he tried to make you feel.

Seemingly assured you're telling the truth, Castiel drizzles maple syrup over the pancake and pokes at it.

"What about you?" Steering the topic is an art you've mastered, unlike flipping pancakes. Yours is going to be just a little bit on the brown side.

"What about me?"

"How are things with your parents?"

"Fine." Castiel shrugs and adds more maple syrup, and you get the impression that the mix might be on the bland side. When yours is done you put a lot of butter on it. It's not bad, but your assumption was correct.

"Should I make waffles next time?"

"Fuck, Nathaniel...You just hopped from suicide to waffles." He tips his head back and holds the nape of his neck.

"Technically I asked about you in between." It isn't something that really troubles you more than anything else about your newly-minted past does, so you can fluctuate between its gravity and your present steadily. It seems that Castiel can't, however, so you kind of want to apologize. Although it feels like apologizing would make things even weirder.

"Waffles next time, then. I think I might have an iron for waffles somewhere, now that you mention it."

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.

.

You get the job at the laundromat. In doing so you've made them take the sign down and you feel accomplished about that. You man the register after school three days a week, and every other Saturday morning.

It's simple, mundane. The task is outlined like that, anyway. You actually get in a lot of good people-watching. The girls who were sharing the potato are regulars and the potato wasn't just a one-time thing, they share a potato every single time. There's this old man who's a regular too and he only uses the second to last washing machine on the back wall and the dryer directly across from it. Always. Even if it's taken and there are plenty of other machines available, he'll sit and wait until that one becomes free.

There are interesting non-regulars too. Over the course of just two weeks you get to see a person in a penguin costume who you can only assume is a mascot for some school or another, a mime who keeps up the act and collects tips from other customers while her clothes are still spinning, and this guy whose beard touches the floor.

Iris and her mother stop while you're there and you help her memorize some of her algebra notes before she leaves. Castiel has brought you lunch a couple of times.

You like it well enough. You feel like you fit.

.

.

.

You make Amber walk the damn Demon.

Well, he's more so walking her, but in any case you're not the one holding the leash. Neither is Castiel even though it's his dog. He said he wasn't feeling well, but you think that's bullshit. You're pretty sure he just likes annoying you in the healthiest way he sees fit, because hey, no matter what happens, you can't completely 180 on each other, right?

Amber doesn't mind Demon as much as you do though. Whether it's because she still has that weird, googly-eyed crush on Castiel or you've just underestimated the level of her distaste for large dogs, she doesn't put up much of a fight when you pawn him off on her.

"I was thinking about cutting my hair," she says as you stroll along and Demon stops to sniff at some mailbox that a thousand dogs have probably pissed on.

"Oh?"

"Mhm. Do you think it'd look good shoulder-length?" She looks practically scandalized as Demon also decides to piss on the mailbox and if you didn't find it equally as revolting, you'd have to snicker at the way her face contorts.

"It might be easier for you to manage if it's shorter." She used to spend hours in the bathroom, brushing it, styling it, washing it. She and your mother used to make salon trips weekly and you know it's her favorite feature. Maybe that's why she wants to cut it?

"I was thinking that too— Oh my god. Take this dog!" She tries to force the leash back into your hands as Demon engages in dry-humping a fire hydrant.

"Noo." You slink away and stuff them in your pockets. "He's your problem now."

She tries to yank him away, but she's got a pretty low score in the muscle department and that titanic canine is built like a boulder.

"You owe me a smoothie for this," she grumbles.

"That's fair," you agree.

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Class starts in five hours. You should be asleep. You've been trying to sleep for over an hour now, but it's unachievable over the racket that is Castiel's coughing. Evidently he wasn't bullshitting about not feeling well because for the past two hours he's been hacking his lungs out. It's nonstop, thick, wet and so loud you can hear it through the walls.

You're vexed because it's keeping you up, but feel bad for him and possibly concerned. You don't know what to do. He's clearly having a hard enough time without you bugging him. You don't really want to get all that close for your own sake because he sounds like a biohazard. But it's been two hours...

Sighing, you roll off the couch-bed and pad down the hall, knocking at his door.

You hear some shuffling from the other side, more of that nasty cough and then he opens up, greeting you with a glare that seems a bit too bright.

"What?"

"Do you want me to get you a glass of water, or something? Do you have any cough medicine?"

Castiel breaks into another fit of it before he can answer and even though he has the common decency to cover his mouth, you have to inch backward and grimace.

"Moron," he rasps when he's through. "If I had some I would've taken it by now."

"Water, then?" Patience isn't your default, but it's obvious that he's feeling like hell, so you're employing it the best you can.

"It won't help." Coughing again, he retreats to his room and shuts the door in your face.

You go through a checklist of twenty-four hour pharmacies in your head because you need your sleep and you're not too keen on letting him suffer, either. It doesn't take you long to find the car keys, as they're usually in the general vicinity of the kitchen. You can still hear him coughing as you walk out the door. You hope it's not freaking pneumonia.

You're quick to get in and out of the store, buying nothing other than generic cough syrup and wishing you would've said something an hour ago. It would've saved you an hour of sleep. You have a test tomorrow. You trot back inside just in time to see Castiel succumb to another harsh, persistent bout. He's migrated to the living room since your departure, blanket bundled around his shoulders and Demon at his heels.

"I heard you leave," he wheezes, his attention held on you precariously, eyes tired and confused.

"Just to buy some medicine." You consider tossing him the bag, but you can't count on him catching like this, so you just hold it out. "Take it and go back to bed."

"Don't tell me what to do." But he does exactly what you told him to. It takes about ten minutes to kick in, but then he's quiet and you can sleep. You do. You sleep well once you're out.

It's the first day you've walked to school by yourself since you started living with him. It feels...Wrong. It's weird that it feels wrong. Maybe it's a sign that you should move out, but you don't think about that. What you do is bring him home the assignments he missed. He's deeply flushed, curled up in the corner of the couch under Demon and a nest of blankets. You're going to have to remind yourself to break out the disinfectant spray before you pull the bed out again.

"How are you feeling?"

He gives you this sullen glower, flips you off for the first time since your truce, so you take that to mean _not well_ and you heat up some soup without offense because he's been taking care of you and the least you can do is repay the favor.

.

.

.

You've found most of your normalcy, the foundations of it at least. You pick up little pieces here and there to help build on what you've got.

What you've got is security that's genuinely secure, the kind that isn't going to choke you and backfire the second you make a misstep. Temporary it may be, but it's there. You have a sister you don't have to have anything in common with to talk to, a friend who won't call himself that, another friend who remembers to feed the cats and one who doesn't remember anything at all.

Then there are the bricks, impeccable grades you get because you want to and not because there's a backlash if you don't, a mediocre pancake mix that's slowly morphing into a slightly better waffle recipe, a cleanly place to put some change in your pocket. Normal things not the least bit compelling that you never could've enjoyed as such with your spine crunching under the mass of impossible standards and your mentality souring to keep itself from shriveling.

For what feels like the first time in your life, you can actually fill your lungs all the way when you breathe and you don't have to look over your shoulder when you let the air out.

* * *

><p><strong>Waardenburg's syndrome e3e<strong>

**For fuck's sake this sucks harder than a melted trash bag. Bleh. I'll fix the typos when I'm done hibernating. **


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